by Bill James
Anyway, perhaps he knew that calling for help in this shelter would not work because everyone would be too scared to go for the man with the knife. The raid outside with the whistling bombs and the fire and the broken glass had made them frightened enough and they would not look for an extra fright, such as trying to get the knife off this man. The posh way the two men spoke might also stop anyone in the shelter interfering because these two sounded as though they were used to doing things the way they wanted and would not put up with any bother from ordinary Barton Street people and such like.
Through the smoke around the two men Ian thought he did see something shine. It was in the right hand of the man who had not turned his back. His other hand and arm stayed around the neck of the man who had turned his back. The man who had not turned his back said in a loud voice, but still posh, ‘You shouldn’t have had it all. Shouldn’t. He said the ‘shouldn’t’ really strong, twice, and stronger on the second go. It seemed to sound right along the shelter, past Mr Chip Shop, and then past the four of them. This one seemed to have plenty of breath for words, even though he must be using part of his strength to grip the other man like that on his throat and not let go. But the ‘shouldn’t’ came out with real power. He meant it. But it wasn’t just that he meant it; no, he wanted all in that shelter to know the other man ‘shouldn’t’. This was a message to travel the total length of the shelter. Nobody in the shelter could miss hearing this ‘shouldn’t’.
The right arm of the man who had said ‘shouldn’t’ went forwards and backwards four times, or maybe five, and Ian thought he saw that shining thing again and the man who had turned his back just slipped down and lay on his side by the other man’s feet on the floor of the shelter. Even if Clifford hadn’t said, ‘He’s got a knife,’ Ian would have known then it was a knife that went forward and back. The man with the knife had given up his hold around the neck of the other one so he could drop. Ian saw that the bottoms of the shoes of the fallen man did not look at all dirty or worn. This newness made him think again that these two men were not from this part of the town.
Of course, if the man on the floor had taken a lot of money from somewhere, he might have spent part of it on shoes. He had said the money was gone, which showed he had spent it on certain items, perhaps such as shoes. Ian did not know whether the shoes of the man with the knife were also new. If both the men came from a posh part of the town, it might be the thing for everyone there to have new shoes. Many thought good shoes very important, not just for keeping feet dry but to look classy when polished up.
Before the big raid tonight, Ian and his friends had used the public shelter as just somewhere to play in. There had not been any bombs near their street until now. Girls and boys kissed in here and so on, away from grown-ups, and played chase through the shelter. It had a door at each end in case of being trapped if it was hit, and the locks had been broken and then mended and then broken again and left broken. When they built the shelter in 1940, just after Ian began at the grammar school, he had not written a love heart in the wet cement with his finger but ‘Britons never shall be slaves’. He had taken that saying from the song ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. He put those words there because Hitler said he would soon be ruling Britain. Ian wanted to give him a message. The cement went hard and the letters must stay for years and years – until the end of the war when the shelter would get knocked down because of no more raids, and Hitler would have been smashed by the army, navy and Royal Air Force.
Now, because of the raid and this man lying on the floor, and Clifford Hill saying ‘He’s got a knife’ in an ordinary way but phlegmy and trembling, the shelter seemed to Ian quite different. It was not a place to pee in or play and kiss and get feels in, but to hide from the bombs and shrapnel in and watch two men become really angry about something to do with money, and one of them turn savage. The other man, the one not flat on the floor and most likely dead, went and sat on a bench. ‘He’s got the knife in his hand,’ Clifford said. ‘Blood.’ Cliff was still trembling. Everyone in the shelter had had a shock, but it seemed worse for Clifford. It had been a very bad evening for him – in his house by himself when the raid began and now this man with the knife.
‘Ignore him,’ Ian’s mother told Clifford. Ian could see the knife clearly now. The man held it down against his trouser leg in his left hand. It looked like an ordinary pocket knife but big. He did not fold the blade back. Blood would drip on his clothes and shoes, and he did not seem to care. Perhaps he had decided the other man must get stabbed like that because of the money, and now it was done and he could not be bothered to worry. Maybe some people were like this when they became angry about losing money. Ian thought the man would run away after doing what he did, but he stayed there, although outside everything still seemed better and safe. Mr Bell, the chip shop man, said someone should go and fetch a police officer, stabbings being a crime even in the middle of an air raid.
‘Yes, the police,’ his wife said.
‘I agree,’ Mrs Charteris said. ‘Well, you go, Mr Bell.’
Mrs Bell said, ‘No.’
Mr Bell replied he had to keep guard.
‘Yes, he has to keep guard,’ his wife said.
‘Guard what?’ Ian’s mother asked.
‘This is a situation where someone to keep guard is very necessary,’ Mrs Bell said.
Ian thought that Mr and Mrs Bell meant somebody must guard the one with the knife and make sure he didn’t escape. But Mr Bell was very wheezy and thin. He should eat more of his own fish and chips. He would not be able to stop the man if he wanted to go or if he became angry with someone else. He still had the knife open. Mr Bell said Ian should go. There’d be police in Larch Street because of the bombs and fire there. Perhaps even the mansion had been hit or the Gospel Hall.
‘Sure to be police in Larch Street,’ his wife said. ‘They would be worried about the mansion and I think the Gospel Hall Sunday school were having their after-Christmas party there this evening.’
‘The lad can wear this in case of shrapnel,’ Mr Bell added. He had a grey, metal helmet by his side on the bench. Ian went and put it on. It was too big but Mr Bell tightened the strap under Ian’s chin. He began to feel grown-up and necessary, as though he had become someone else. He liked that. Although the helmet was heavy, Ian didn’t mind. It had to be thick and strong to stop the shrapnel which might be sharp and falling very fast. Or if a building collapsed near you bricks might fall and hit your head.
‘No, Ian,’ his mother said. He could tell she felt she’d lost him because of the helmet, as though he had put on army uniform and gone to the war.
‘It’s necessary,’ Mrs Bell said. ‘And a doctor will be needed too.’
‘That man doesn’t need a doctor,’ Mr Bell said.
‘A doctor to say he’s dead,’ Mrs Bell said.
‘Doctors will be busy tonight, dealing with the injured,’ Mrs Charteris said.
‘Just the same, he has to be certified,’ Mrs Bell said. She nodded towards the man on the floor.
Ian said he’d be all right and would come straight back from Larch Street. If he found a policeman, the copper would know what to do about a doctor.
‘He’ll be all right,’ Mr Bell said. ‘The other boy, the older one, has some shock.’ He meant Clifford. Ian felt proud to be doing something with a helmet on that Clifford could not do, even though he was older at fifteen.
‘Well, you go, if you’re so sure it will be all right,’ Ian’s mother said to Mr Bell.
Ian said Mr Bell had to be a guard. Ian knew Mr Bell would be no good at it, but he kept quiet about that, or he would have seemed cruel to someone who had lent him a grown-up’s helmet. And Ian wanted to go to Larch Street and look for a policeman just to show he could do it, even though the raid might start again.
‘That helmet suits your son,’ Mrs Bell said. ‘When the raid is over you and the boys can come to the shop for chips and fish free.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Bell agreed.
Ian thought the builder must know now it had been foolish to place that mansion there, especially if he was inside when the bombs began. A big ammunitions factory stood opposite on the other side of the river and the bombers must have been after that. Spies might have told them it was there. Even at night and in the blackout the German pilots could see the river. The airmen used it to find the factory and only just missed. They got the mansion and some smaller houses in Larch Street on the other side of the water instead. The builder had put the mansion there because he wanted a view of the river. But German bombers had a view of the Taff from up there, too, guiding them – the way rivers looked on a map, a line, seeming to wander, but clear.
The mansion was at the Taff end of the street, so the people there could get that pleasant sight of the water when it was peacetime. The Gospel Hall stood at the other end. It wasn’t damaged. Ian had been to the Sunday school there a couple of times. He had been made to go so the house would be quiet for Mr Charteris to have his sleep in an armchair after the big Sunday dinner. He gave Ian twopence for collection. But Ian hadn’t liked the way they talked in the Gospel Hall of needing to be ‘washed in the blood of the Lamb’. He knew this was picture language only, but it still made him feel a bit sick. They said there that if you were washed in the blood of the Lamb you’d become whiter than snow. He couldn’t really understand this. Anyway, although he went on taking the twopence for collection from his father, he didn’t go to the Sunday school. He had a wander about instead. In the summer, he’d put one of his boys’ magazines in his pocket, such as Adventure or Hotspur, and go and read some tales in the park until the time he knew Sunday school would be over.
A lot of the children from the Christmas party seemed still stuck in the building tonight because of the blitz. As Ian passed, they were singing a chorus, maybe meant to blot out the sound of the bombs and guns. ‘Yes, we shall gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful, river.’ That seemed to him a dopey piece to be singing here tonight. Rivers brought bombs.
Ian saw a policeman without his helmet on who was helping look for people in a wrecked house. It was half gone, beams and slates from the roof piled up on the floor of the front room. One wall of this room was down. Ian could see a piano in there looking all right, an open book of music stood on the holder, ready for playing. In the light from the fires he could read the title of the music, a song called ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’.
One of Ian’s friends, Doreen Spire, lived in Larch Street, but Ian did not know which house. It was not the mansion. She was one who wouldn’t let you touch her anywhere. There were some like that, even though the shelter was usually so private. Probably, their mothers had been on at them about keeping their legs closed or boys would talk about you and have no respect. Most likely Doreen’s parents went to the Gospel Hall where they would be fussy about that kind of thing. You were not supposed to get a handful until married if you’d been washed in the blood. He said: ‘I think a murder. In the big shelter – Barton Street. Committed with a knife. Many witnessed it. They are all still in the shelter.’
The policeman asked how many. His face had ash on. It looked like warpaint smeared over an Indian brave in a cowboy film. He was taking a rest with a cigarette.
‘How many what?’ Ian said.
‘How many dead?’
‘Well, one,’ Ian said. ‘A murder. This was all very unexpected.’ He thought he’d better explain it like that.
‘There’s three here. And four next door and three next door but one. We think three, and the cat.’
‘Murder,’ Ian said. ‘About money, not the bombs.’
The policeman replied he might come in a minute. Ian watched while two air-raid wardens and an ambulance man brought out a woman’s body on a stretcher under a blanket. He could see her stockings. They had slipped down her legs and were wrinkled and creased near her shoes. It was definitely a grown-up woman, not Doreen. She did not wear stockings like that and the legs were too thick, much thicker than Doreen’s, which were slim and quite long. Ian had paid attention to them regardless of how she wouldn’t let anyone do anything. This looked like the kind of woman who would play and sing some number like ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’. The policeman asked how it was that Ian had a helmet. Ian said it was Mr Chip Shop’s.
‘A kid of your age shouldn’t have a helmet. They’re not for kids. Helmets are not toys.’
‘It was important. I had to come. He might run. Or go for someone else with the knife. My mother and brother are still there, and Clifford Hill. Clifford couldn’t come because there was only one helmet and he’s already a bit scared from being by himself in their house at first. His parents went to see Down Argentine Way. It upset him to be on his own in their house.’
‘Went to sea down Argentine way? Didn’t our boys make the German pocket battleship Graf Spee scupper herself in that area? We had three ships there, smaller than the Graf Spee, but they did the job. This would be HMS Exeter, HMS Achilles, HMS Ajax. South America? That’s a distance. And they left the boy at home?’
‘He had already seen it.’
‘What?’
‘Down Argentine Way. In the Bug and Scratch.’
‘Right,’ the policeman said. ‘I think that’s all we’ll find here.’ He put his helmet on. They went back through the lane. The man was still sitting on the bench with the knife in his hand near the other man on the floor. The policeman crouched and looked at the body. ‘You did it?’ he said to the man on the bench.
The man held out the knife in one hand. Yes, blood, as Clifford said. The policeman took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the knife before putting it on the bench. ‘Evidence,’ he said. ‘Did you see what happened?’ he asked Ian.
‘Yes. That one on the floor turned his back and—’
‘All right,’ the policeman said. He brought out handcuffs and fixed them on the wrists of the man sitting on the bench. The man let him. He did not fight or struggle or anything like that. The policeman said he would go back to Larch Street to tell the sergeant he had to take this man and Ian to the police station. ‘You’re a witness, although you’re young.’
This was definitely true. ‘Yes,’ Ian said.
‘We were all witnesses,’ Mr Bell said.
‘Yes, but this boy came to fetch me,’ the policeman said.
‘I had to stay to protect my wife and the rest,’ Mr Bell said. ‘This was a matter of sharing risk.’
The policeman said to Ian: ‘You and the suspect can both wait outside now. The raid’s over. It’s calm. We mustn’t have this fellow frightening the other folk. I don’t think he’ll run. He’s not the sort. Anyway, in cuffs he’d look like a looter of bombed houses who’s escaped and people would really go after him. They’ve heard of looters. They’re not at all fond of looters.’
Ian and the man stood near the words about not being slaves that Ian had written in the cement. The fires in Larch Street were still high enough to light up the message. ‘What money?’ Ian asked the man.
‘Yes, money. It’s always about money, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ Ian said.
‘Trouble. Conflict. He found the money in our mother’s house when she died. All the money. Behind volumes on the book shelves. That was just like our mother. She wouldn’t use banks. She had read about banks going bust in America in 1929. She didn’t trust them. Do you
know what I mean when I say “going bust”? Collapsing through debt.’
‘I was born in 1929,’ Ian replied. ‘I didn’t realize about the banks, though.’
‘He knew it – the money store. She was a widow. No will. I believe she didn’t make a will because she thought we’d agree to take half each. It would seem natural to her. That money’s an inheritance, for dividing, isn’t it? This was quite a few years ago. I’ve only just found him.’
Ian would have guessed from the way he talked that this man’s mother was the kind to have volumes and book shelves. Not just for hiding money but for reading and referring to, such as history or The Practical Home Doctor, which Ian’s parents had at home for splinters or ingrown toe nails. Most likely the man’s mother didn’t have a maid, though, because she would find the money behind the volumes when she was cleaning and you couldn’t tell what she would do then, such as take some of it. But, of course, the maid might be a very honest maid and would dust around the money without pinching any of it.
‘But I shouldn’t be telling you all this – a kid in a helmet,’ the man said. He had a square face with a tiny dark moustache, a bit like Adolf’s. You’d think men would shave off that kind of moustache now in the war, or let it grow bigger. He had on the dark coat and most probably good shoes, a white shirt and a tie with silver stripes on red.
‘I was the one Mr Bell picked to go. And his wife. We’ll get fish and chips later, if there’s still time to light up. If not we can go there tomorrow, I expect, including Clifford Hill, because he was with us, and it would not be fair to make him do without, even though he didn’t go to Larch Street for the policeman.’
‘Even so,’ the man said.
‘Is he your brother?’ Ian asked.
‘He took it all. Spent it all. Or he said he’d spent it all. That might be just to stop me getting at any of it. You can’t tell me that’s fair.’